Gotterdammerung
by Tela
Summary: Ragnarok, Gotterdammerung, Doom of the Gods…the end of the cosmos. They were merely puppets in the hands of a god, a puppet that could throw the whole of the nine worlds off balance. They would trigger Ragnarok.
1. Prologue: God Among Men

I know it's kind of weird but so am I XD I happen to love mythology, Norse mythology particularly, so that's one reason I like RO so much. Anyway, I just needed to write something different.

**Disclaimer**: This fic may require a little thinking on your part.

**Also, the first part that is in **_italics_** is not necessary to read for the story. All it is is a quick run through of what happens during Ragnarok. You can skip it if you want.**

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**Gotterdammerung: Prologue...God Among Men**

Ragnarok, Gotterdammerung, Doom of the Gods…the end of the cosmos.

_Winter after winter, summer is no longer. The sun and moon, at long last, are caught and devoured by the wolves, Skoll and Hatii, plunging the world into darkness. Fjalar will crow to the giants, Gullinkambi will crow to the gods and a third cock crows to raise the dead. _

_Rumbling earth shatters bonds; the giant wolf, Fenrir, is freed. Waves crash as sky and land are poisoned; the serpent, Jormungand, writhes. Naglfar will sail free from the serpent's waves toward the battlefield. From the realm of the dead, the inhabitants of hell sail with Loki, god of fire and magic, upon a second ship. The giants will leave Muspell with Surt, his sword scorching the earth._

_At the final sounding of Heimdall's horn, heroes and sons of Odin will go forth into the battlefield. To the plains of Vigrid, gods, demons, giants, elves and dwarves will ride. _

_Odin and the great wolf Fenrir will battle and Thor will engage Jormungand. The giant serpent will fall but his venom will gradually kill Thor. Surt will overtake the swordless god Freyr. The one handed god Tyr will fight and kill the hellhound Garm but to no avail, as he will die of his wounds. Odin and Fenrir battle for a long time, but the great god will be swallowed by the giant wolf. Odin's son, Vidar, will come forward and rip Fenrir's jaws apart with his bare hands to avenge his father. Loki and Heimdall meet for a final time but neither lives to victory._

_Finally, Surt flings fire in all directions and burns the world. Ally and foe alike expire as the nine worlds burn. With a great sigh, the earth sinks into the sea. A new world, ideal and abundant, will rise and the gods who did not survive will be reborn. Misery and evil no longer exist as Lif and Liftrasir sleep in Hodmimir's indestructible forest until it is their time to give life to earth once again._

Bound until the day of Ragnarok, he lays chained to three boulders, deep within the earth. His wife remains vigilantly by his side, collecting the venom dripping from the snake above his head into bowl. She murmurs a few words, saying that bowl is full. She would hurry back to him to catch the venom. As she leaves, the poison falls slowly from the fangs of the snake. It falls on his face, unimaginable pain surging through him. He writhes so violently that the earth quakes above him. His wife returns to catch the venom so he will have relief from the pain. He cannot wait. Ragnarok must be brought sooner and he would trigger it. Loki was livid with Odin and would bring the end. He would bring Ragnarok.

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Darkened skies of the heavens watch and wait. They watch the soft, water swelled ground and the gnarled half-dead trees. With each gust of icy wind, the forest sways and the mountain groans. The foreboding peaks of the ice-capped mountain conceal a soul. This nameless soul, as eternal as the very earth he treads upon, does not hold himself to the standards or morals of the human world he labors in.

Armored feet sink into the bloated earth, heavy with the weight of time. Trudging through the sighing forest, the rain patters loudly off his rusted armor. The sword held by his gauntleted hand drags in the mud, carelessly. The hilt is loose and the blade as dull and rusted as his armor. A city is near and he has not walked upon its stone streets nor gazed upon the pristine city wall since the day its first stone was laid. This city proclaims goodness and purity. His immortal soul knows that it is not. No place, no matter how divine or blessed, is pure and free of darkness.

The rain followed him to the city, the dreary clouds spreading far and wide. As he approached the open gates of Prontera, his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Yes, the people of Rune-Midgard prized this as a holy city. If only they realized the truth of the illusion. Many, many people don masks to hide what they know to be true within them.

He strode down the main street, his heavy steps echoing off the buildings. He left a trail of large, muddy prints in his wake. In their homes, people felt a strange chill…something they could not explain. He felt the presence of a most prefect soul very near. He followed his senses to a particular building, a pub. As he reached the door, he pushed it open immediately feeling the overbearing presence of that perfect soul. Unfortunately, he wore the mask that the Nameless God detested…

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He felt uneasy, anxious, and fearful. Actually, he felt every awful emotion he could think of. He began feeling strangely the night before. He could not eat nor sleep. His hands began to shake only a short time ago. He could barely do anything but grasp the rosary around his neck.

Two hours ago, he began to pray as if his life depended on it. When the bishop asked what was bothering him, he lied. If he confessed his sins to the bishop, he would surely be excommunicated. The bishop told him to take a walk to clear his head. It did not help. His sins…he had not committed any sins, but the thoughts he was having were bad enough. No priest should think anything like what he was thinking. Thoughts of murder and greed and lust and so much more were filling his mind. He felt like he was breaking down.

He did not feel like himself. As his hands shook, he gripped the rosary tighter and tighter, praying to God for relief. He had no idea why he was having such thoughts. He could not speak such horrors aloud. Yes, they were indeed too unspeakable. He squeezed his eyes shut, prayed, and asked for forgiveness. God help him…

"Brother Cyril, are you okay?" a fellow, very concerned priest asked. He had been told to find Cyril about half an hour ago. Luckily, he had not gone far. They had noticed him acting odd but were not sure what to make of it. Cyril ignored him and continued to pray.

Something was clawing at his mind and making him think these things. He had thought of these things before, just not all at once. Not like this. He was slowly driving himself to the brink of insanity. He felt an unnatural chill as the door of the pub opened and closed a few moments later. His whole body shook and his fellow priest was beginning to worry. "Cyril?" the priest attempted. When he received no answer, he tried again. "Cyril, answer me," he said in a stern voice. Cyril still refused to answer. Something was building within him. Something terrible was about to be unleashed.

With a sigh, the priest gripped the trembling man's shoulder and shook him lightly. In a flash, Cyril stood, knocking his own chair to the floor with a loud clatter and his right hand found its way to the other priest's throat. He knew what he was doing and a very small part of him was terrified that he could not stop. The rest of him wanted to see the priest die slowly. His vision was blurred and it seemed that he could not control his instinct to squeeze his fingers tighter. All he could see was red. There were alarmed shouts in the room when people realized what was going on. The priest in his grasp was slowly turning blue in the face and losing consciousness.

"Enough." Cyril heard the single murmured word through all the shouting. He dropped the motionless priest and let him hit the floor with a dull thud. He was still alive and Cyril was very unhappy about it. He followed the source of the voice to a man standing by the door. Words could not explain what he saw just then. The man was not spectacular in any way. He was pale and tall with long, matted brown hair and rusted armor. His presence is what made him unreal. As he looked at this man, everything seemed to make sense for some reason.

"Rid yourself of that hideous mask and become the perfect soul that I have seen." His mask…? Ah yes, his mask is his priesthood, is it not? No, his mask was the thought that he was good and without darkness. "Correct. Come."

The priest followed without a second thought into the evening rain. He asked no questions and the thoughts in his mind ceased their torment. He would gladly obey if this...creature, could clear his mind. As they reached the city gate, the nameless one paused and turned slowly to look at the priest with chilly yellowed eyes.

A perfect soul, by the Nameless God's definition, was a soul that was entirely dark. Every soul instilled upon mortals came with a basic design. This design includes both light and dark as is necessary for balance. Those born with only a very small part of light will almost always fall prey to the darkness. This is how the so-called "evil" mortals, came to be. It is innate. Some do not become evil and lead relatively normal lives. Others accept the darkness in their hearts.

This priest, however, was different. He was born into complete darkness. Only by imperfections in the tapestry woven by the gods are they produced. They were effortless to control. They were merely puppets in the hands of a god, a puppet that could throw the whole of the nine worlds off balance. They could trigger Ragnarok.

Cyril stared blankly at the Nameless God whose stony expression turned into a pleased look. The man wore the typical dark robes of priesthood and had short, wild red hair and, at the moment, dull blue eyes. The Nameless God did not care what he looked like. He cared only for the perfect soul he had obtained. He thought he would find none for many hundreds of years more. His master had even said this. In fact, his master would be very pleased. "Tell me, servant, what do you seek?"

Cyril, still in a trancelike state, answered in an even voice, "To teach those blinded by the great God."

"Good. Are there more like you?" he asked eagerly, though surprised the priest had mentioned Odin. The priest was silent for a moment, looking for any other spirits similar to his. It was incredibly simple and his mind could see so very far.

"One."

The hushed words of his master were indeed true then if there was another. He had found his seeker and now he knew that his destroyer existed as well. "Take me to this other perfect soul."

His servant then smiled a dark and knowing smile at his master's words. "He's already looking for you."

Much to the Nameless God's surprise, the second soul had already sensed him and searched him out. He was here in Prontera. His seeker led him to the northeast corner of the city, through the darkened streets. Before long, the tall spires of the church came into view. A house of light…Odin's doing. It is his light, as opposed to his own darkness, that bears faith and hope within the human soul. The Nameless God thought it pointless.

There was stillness around the church that was eerie and out of place. He pushed open the door to find the hall dark and extremely warm. The scent of charred flesh hung heavy in the air as he and the priest walked unhurriedly down the hall to the main chapel. As they reached the chapel, the doors were wide open and large lumps of still burning corpses dimly lit the large room. It was certainly morbid but at the same time, it was a testament to the blackness of the soul before him.

A man sat on the steps of the altar, his arms resting on his knees. His blood spattered clothing gave away that he was a high wizard. Pale blond hair fell over his eyes as he slowly looked up to see his guests. He knew at once who had come for him and he smiled a most dangerous smile. As the duo approached, he spoke in a low, baleful voice, "Loki's incarnation has come for, has he? This body shall bring the Doom of the Gods as he has planned. I, Casimir, am at your beck and call. What you ask, I will do."

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**A/N**: Hope it didn't disappoint. R & R as usual if you please! 


	2. Identity

Just so you know…I have tweaked things about the myths here and there to suit my story but overall, it's mostly the same.

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**Gotterdammerung: Identity**

Loki would be pleased. Release from his punishment would soon be at hand. The Nameless God led his two servants out of the church, back to the dark street. The autumn winds picked up, chilling and dry. The two followed him out of the city toward his mountain. It was in the heart of the mountain that his master was kept. As the trio came closer, they felt the earth beneath them tremble in regular intervals. The closer they got the more violent the shaking became.

"Nameless One, why does the ground shake?" a curious Cyril asked.

His master gazed toward the snow-capped mountain and pointed. "This is where Loki lays. It is he who causes the earth to shake with his pain."

"Are we going to him?"

"No, first, we must see Hel. She resides in Helheim, the realm of the dead under the roots of the world tree, Yggdrasil." The Nameless one paused and turned to his servants. Casimir lifted a quizzical brow, wondering what was next. The Nameless One pulled a small pouch from his belt and tossed it to the ground. He then looked to the wizard with a blank expression. "Set fire to the pouch."

Casimir summoned a fireball, no more the size of a coin and sent it toward the pouch on the ground with a flick of his wrist. For a moment, it held a small flame as it burned through the material. Suddenly, the fire swelled into a massive blaze of bluish purple flames and then it died suddenly, leaving a swirling circle of light on the ground. "The only way to Helheim without death."

Cyril and Casimir stepped through the portal without a second thought, their master following behind. The three appeared in a dark land, standing before a bridge, a thick mist billowing around their feet. Immediately, a hound of monstrous size greeted them. No doubt, this was Garm, guardian of Helheim's entrance. Even despite Casimir's great height, he came only to the top of Garm's leg. Bleak yellow eyes examined the living, stepping closer, nudging the priest roughly.

The hound then moved over to the wizard. "What business does the living have in the realm of the dead?" the hound rasped near Casimir's ear. The hot breath was laced with the stink of rotted corpses. It was no mystery how the hound was fed.

"Hel expects us," the Nameless God said.

"Proceed, Loki's avatar." The hound, Garm, circled them once before letting them pass over the bridge.

Ahead of them was a dreary and worn castle, obviously the home of Hel. They walked over dead, grassless soil to the foreboding structure. Approaching, they saw a figure of a woman come from the entrance and walk toward them. Glimmering blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a slender and beautiful face. Honey brown eyes, though gorgeous, were emotionless. She looked sullen.

Casimir, always an appreciative one of women, looked down the rest of her. A deep crimson dress, with sheer sleeves graced her upper form but as his eyes fell lower, he saw the tattered lower portion of the dress. Her legs were decomposing and peeling away, black and greenish gray. Her lower half was dead. It was a disgusting sight to behold, but who could expect the mistress of the dead to be completely alive? She stopped before them, expression unchanging.

"Hel," The Nameless God greeted her.

"Embodiment of my father, I see. He has undermined Odin finally. What are his wishes?" she asked, her voice was harsh and it betrayed the soft beauty of her face.

"He wishes you to be ready to send the undead forth to his aid when the time comes." She regarded him for a moment, as if thinking. Her eyes then fell upon the two mortal servants. The Nameless One could tell what she was thinking. "These are his chosen servants. They will be the trigger of Ragnarok and will free Loki of his chains."

"I see," she said simply. She wondered if her father, Loki, could really change fate. Odin had imprisoned him once and he could certainly do so again. She had always held a grudge against Odin for what he had done to her and her siblings. He thought they were a hazard so the gods kidnapped them and made sure they could not become this supposed threat. This is how she became the mistress of the dead. She was certainly mistress of her own realm, but the grudge remained.

She was intrigued by Loki's intentions, she had to admit. Even more so, his instruments intrigued her. His "triggers", they had been called. They were an interesting pair. The high wizard had a feeling of murderous intent practically seeping from him. The priest was far more than his nonchalance appeared. She was rather surprised he was being controlled so easily. Even so, this was information she would keep to herself.

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The priest slowly opened his eyes, the world around him a bit hazy at first. As his vision focused, he sat up, realizing that he was in a bed that was not his own. He then remembered what had transpired, his hand rising to touch his throat. It was tender and most likely bruised from the feel of it. He heard an aged female voice chime in. "That priest really did a number to you."

He glanced to a chair next to the bed to see an older woman wearing an apron. She was not particularly pretty and she probably never was. A life of hard work always takes a toll on ones body. She must work at the pub, he thought. "The other priest left with some other fellow right after you passed out. I figured it'd be best to bring you here to rest…since…there's some bad news." She seemed very reluctant to continue speaking. Perhaps she knew something of Cyril. He hoped she did because something was horribly wrong.

"What news?" he asked, unsure whether he really wanted to know.

"The church…someone murdered _everyone_ there. My son and I took you there at first but—but all of them—everyone was burned to death…" she trailed off. It had been a horrifying scene to behold. Her son had immediately notified authorities before they took this priest away from the church. He stared down at his hands, twisting the fabric of his dark robes angrily.

First Cyril loses his mind and disappears and now someone had murdered the people of the church. They had done nothing to deserve such deaths. "You might look after those bruises on your neck. Unsightly things they are. Why would a priest do that to you?" she asked softly.

Honestly, he no idea why his fellow priest acted in such a way. He merely shrugged and moved from the bed, to a small mirror on the wall. The woman was right; the bruises were a ghastly purplish brown. You could plainly see the imprints of fingers. He heard the old woman stand and walk toward the door, stopping for a moment.

"I think fate has dealt her cards and yours may be difficult to play." Then, she was gone. Perhaps she was right, but the meaning was not clear. The only thing he was sure of was the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. In any case, he had to go to the church and see with his own eyes. It was already very late this night but this meant nothing to him.

When he arrived, he saw two paladins standing at the entrance of the church, preventing anyone entry. He stood, knowing the old woman's words to be true. Terrible but true. Perhaps the paladins would let him through to at least give the dead a proper burial. Just then, he heard the familiar voice of a little girl. "Leave me alone! I'll go in if I want! You can't ma—hey! Stoooop!" Her shrieks were accompanied by sobs.

A crusader with an exasperated expression came through the church doors, an acolyte slung over his shoulder. She was thrashing wildly but unable to get away. The crusader set her down after the doors closed again but kept hold of her arms in case she caused more trouble. Her chin length red hair was a mess, her face was tear streaked and he could see her shaking.

"You can't go in there, okay?" the crusader said gently. She crossed her arms and looked away angrily.

"Heather?" the priest called to the girl. She looked up at his voice and immediately took off running toward him, a faint look of relief in her eyes.

"Dahlmiel!"she sobbed as she wrapped her thin arms around his waist. Apparently, she had survived somehow. Somehow, he didn't think Cyril would have cared if she lived or died. "They're all…" He held the eight-year-old close as she began crying again.

Dahlmiel looked up to the crusader, almost afraid to find out the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Is she the only one?" The man nodded grimly. What kind of monster would do this, he wondered silently.

"W-where's Cyril?" she asked. She knew he had left for a while because he was acting weird so she thought surely he and Dahlmiel would have come back together. The priest glanced down at the acolyte, not sure what to tell her. "What happened to him?" She could see that Dahl was not eager to tell her. He unconsciously touched his throat and sighed. She took note of his movement and noticed the marks. "Did he…do that?"

"I'm not sure where he is and as for these," he said, motioning to his bruises, "he was the cause of them." Heather frowned and wiped at her eyes. Why would her big brother do this to his friend? "Heather, can you stay here with these men and do as you're told?"

"Yeah," she replied grudgingly.

"I've got some things to do inside and then I need to find out who did this. Why don't you say some prayers for our brothers and sisters that were lost today?" She nodded and released him from her small arms. "Oh, and behave for them," he added as he walked toward the doors. She was a good girl, but a hellion when she wanted to be.

The two paladins let him pass and once he was through the doors, the overwhelming reek of burned flesh greeted him. God help these poor people. They must have died a slow and agonizing death. He moved to the chapel where his heart fell. All that was left were bone fragments and ash. Even children had perished at the hands of this killer, judging by the smaller piles. The smell was sickening. It was simply sheer will that he hadn't retched yet.

He walked slowly, sat in a pew at the front of the chapel, and clasped his hands for prayer. He needed guidance and the poor souls of his brothers and sisters needed guidance. Dahlmiel prayed and prayed until a voice stirred him. It was an unfamiliar voice, powerful and commanding.

"Servant of my house, tragedy has befallen you it appears." The priest opened his eyes to see a man of great stature, a man that bore an uncanny resemblance to Odin. He had only one eye left, legend had said Odin traded one eye for wisdom and looking into his remaining eye, you were greeted with all-wise truth. There was no doubt that this was Odin. "The time has come for you to play your part."

"My…part?" the priest asked, bewildered at the situation. This could not possibly be Odin, could it? The god's presence was too great to think anything less, but why was he here? Furthermore, why did he not save the people that served him?

"You are not quite all that meets the eye. You are a stray, no one knows of any family and you never wondered why?"

"Not really," he replied suspiciously. He just accepted that fact the he had been unwanted and thought nothing more of it. Was Odin telling him that this was untrue? He had many, many questions racing through his mind but his voice failed him.

"Until it becomes clear, Loki may disrupt the nine worlds in a way we never imagined. Ragnarok will not proceed as fate has planned if he has his way. Think on this, who you are, at least for the sake of Midgard. Our trickster god has become a threat even in the midst of his punishment." Dahlmiel had no idea what to think of this. He was utterly confused. He glanced away momentarily and in the next instant, the great god was gone. What had he meant?

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It had been two days since Dahlmiel had held a memorial service for the unfortunate victims. It had been one day since a new head of the Prontera church had been chosen. He was old but kindly and wise. It was difficult to get more priests to come here and more acolytes to begin their training. It was reasonable that people feared the same fate would come to pass for them, but he could not let the church die.

Night had fallen over the capital city and Dahlmiel had gone to his room, exhausted and worried. As he lay in his bed, he begged for a dreamless sleep. He had had nothing but nightmares since that night he had discovered that something was very wrong with Cyril. As the hours passed, he fell into a deep slumber. He had never needed much sleep, but his body had changed suddenly.

_The clash of swords and cries of men and gods alike filled the air of the plains of Vigrid. The battlefield was strewn with bodies, bleeding and butchered. He paid no mind as he ran, looking for his one true enemy. It was he who sounded his horn, Gjallar, bringing all to the final battle. Bringing all to _Ragnarok_. As destiny had written, each god had a part to play. He was the God of light and guardian of Bifrost, the entrance to Asgard. His enemy was none other than the sly, trickster god himself._

_At once, his eyes fell upon his enemy of old. He readied his sword and charged the god of fire and magic, the trickster. The clang of their blades resounded across the land. This would be the final battle. As they raged, their swords impaling and slicing the flesh of the other, the chaotic god fell in defeat. This was the end. Most of the gods had died but this was part of the great tapestry of fate. He had won this battle but his own life was fading. He fell to his knees as the last breath of life fled him. The worlds would begin anew._

Dahlmiel woke with a start and sat up slowly. He had not had a nightmare, but a dream of something else. It felt familiar.

Then, something struck him. He knew something from the dream. He swung his legs over the bed and stood on the wood floor. As he approached his desk, he pulled one of the drawers open pulled out a very plain wooden box. Setting it on the desk, he sat down and stared at it for a moment. Should he open it? Should he see if things were more than they seemed? He was afraid, yes. He did not want to be part of something bigger. He did not want the attention.

Could he really have dreamed something _real_? With hesitant hands, he lifted the lid of the box and pulled out an old relic. It was an ancient battle horn. It did not seem extremely important but it was always an interesting object. As he turned the horn over in his hands, he saw something inscribed. It was an ancient text but one he knew a little of. He read it and instantly knew that something deeper had begun. The name read "Gjallar".

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**A/N**: This isn't incredibly long but I'm sure each chapter will grow :3 Anyway, R & R if you will. 


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